Poeming: Halfway House.

Halfway Down: Illustrated by Ernest H. Shepard

The Poetry Prompt for November 18th was to write something i'd never heard of before, a glosa. Here's how that's done: 

This involves an epigram of 4 consecutive lines from a favorite poet that the challenge participant believes they can write successfully to. Then, write a poem consisting of four 10-line stanzas where the final line of each stanza is a line from the epigram, in order. Within each stanza, lines 6, 9 and 10 must rhyme.

So i laughed a while and set that (insane) project aside, after all, the other people on the Poetic Asides site seem to actually read "real" poetry from which they may select favorites. i haven't read any of those since school some (terribly long) time ago. What to do what to do?
After trying (in vain) (i'm really diggin' the parentheses today) to find something by Plath or Poe or Whitman, i turned to my childhood favorite, A.A.Milne, and my favorite childhood poem, "Halfway Down." So, paste a Stepford Wife smile on my face and imagine me reading you the (mostly) entirely fabricated:



HALFWAY HOUSE.
(or "the devolving of a mood.")

"I'm not at the bottom,
I'm not at the top;
So this is the stair
Where I always stop."

Moods are funny things
affected by so much
but health and wealth and diamond rings
don’t even always touch
your inner Pollyanna (as
I know I’m seen by some)
for even when my mood declines
I try to think of happy times,
so as most moods come,
I’m not at the bottom.

Moods are funny things
affected oft by little
"My tea is cold" "my socks don’t match,"
I couldn’t give a fiddle.
But when it comes to cleaning
I’m not the housework cop
but there’s dust on the railing
and I’m very nearly paling
As my good moods stop,
I’m not at the top.

Moods are funny things
affected by minute
beings doings happenings
of children being “cute”
and whether they’re intentional
or merely unaware
I’ve got to put a stop to it,
the time-out step, you little sh**!
now place your bottom there--
so THIS is the stair!

Moods are funny things
affected by vermouth
(it really helped the other day
when I lost my tooth.)
But the children, they were screaming
so before their heads I’d lop
I had to put a stop to it
or else I’d be a wasted git.
Before my mistakes plentiful
yield a bumper crop
 's where I (nearly) always stop.


(should i claim this?) jle 2012

My (literary snob) daughter made a snearace, or a snimace? anyway a snearing grimace when i read part of it to her. But aitch ee double toothpicks, i'm having (rediculously) too much FUN here to let a little thing like that stop me!

*sniffle*

Good in the midst of bad.

Right now i'm worrying over our dog.

Dynamo, the king of all things at our house, has pancreatitis. He was diagnosed about a month ago, and had a flare up recently due to our inadequate understanding of the problem. Anyway, i dutifully fed him his mini-meals of rice and lowfat cottage cheese for three days over last weekend, then started him back on his lowfat kibble. He's had nothing fatty AT ALL. We've been vigilant. As far as i've been able to see, he's been great since then--eating, drinking, running up and down the stairs, playing with the other two dogs--

THEN tonight--he vomited. This is one sign that can mean another flare-up. This chubby little black doxie has a very tight hold on his dad's heart, ever since they met on the floor of a pet store in October of 2002. Both hubby and i got very still and silent tonight in our worry (well, after i finished cleaning up the mess.) We are both quite accomplished at extreme anxiety, so we went from zero to 60 in no time flat. Instantly in our heads we both visualized the worst possible scenario--no more grouchy black puppy barking at everything that moved. No more cuddling with Dyno.

One thing the Pain Class has been working hard to get through my head in the 2 days i've attended: i must learn to let go. Now, i know already that holding on to negative stuff is poison, and i think given where i started (a whole different story) i've done pretty well to be as positive as i am--let's just say that wasn't a family trait.

i am a person who treasures the love of God who made me and sustained me through the aforementioned "where i started" years. He's stayed with me through miscarried babies and deaths of people i loved. He's maintained His love for me, and i've seen it, through all my stinky attitudes and imperfections. He was an integral part of my five years of therapy. i respect Him and love Him. But i have to admit i've kept some bad bits to myself.

Anxiety has always been the gum on my shoe, and some other things ride alongside smelling a lot like dog poo.

All that to say, usually i can't simply go, "Okay, i let go of my death grip on this worry, on this injustice." Usually i'm too busy safeguarding the bits on my shoe.

Maybe i'm catching on, though. Maybe God in his infinite wisdom has seen fit to use my intelligent pelvis and aching body as another nudge to help me learn what i've known all along, that control is but an illusion. i need to learn to release my death grip on that nasty shoe and just find a clean pair. (Okay, so this probably wasn't the best thought out metaphor.) But as i was hugging onto our little dog and loving on him tonight, i started praying: "God, please take care of our Dynamo. You know how much we love him and need him. Please help me let go and let YOU take over his care, okay?"

Normally this would bring no obvious change, other than me recognizing that i was at least recognizing my need to let go. But this time, a peace washed over me, and the anxious adrenalin stopped spurting. Huh.

It was a weird thing, a different thing, an unfamiliar thing. All those years of therapy, all the years learning to accept God's love for me, even the recent chats with my pelvis, it all came together in a moment of actually letting go.

It's something for me to hold onto and remember. But, God? i'd still like to see the little guy pull through, okay? Thanks.

(Some) impulse control.

Written on Monday--

As i sit in my lovely reclining seat in the First Class cabin of a United Airlines flight home from England, i’m pondering the mysteries of self-discipline and impulse control. And yes, you read that right—First Class. There are some perks to a husband who has spent the last 32 years weathering the stormy seas (skies?) of the airline industry.

Why, you ask, am i pondering impulse control at the end of a lovely month spent with my daughter in England? Possibly because i am relieved i can still wear the same pants i wore on the flight to England, having spent the past four weeks being fed by my son-in-law who loves to cook.

Yes, i did go to be with my daughter so that i could help her in the time surrounding the birth of her third child. And yes, this could have included cooking, i realize, and i went prepared to do that if needed. But i am not a cook—i cook because my family should be fed, and nobody has starved on my watch. i enjoy reading cookbooks and watching others who love to cook on Food Network. But cook myself? Not such a fan. Now, i do have a really nice Bosch range, and some very cool Calphalon pans hanging from a ceiling rack, so my kitchen gives the impression of a person happily sautéing and stirring and banging about with pots. But again, not a huge fan. i’d rather bake cookies. Or knit.

All that to say, i have so thoroughly enjoyed being cooked for that my eating choices have been limited simply by being too full to eat another bite. Coq au vin, lamb roast with rosemary stuffing, thick, creamy soups of winter squashes, or lamb stew. And my daughter had previously been accused (by me!) of “cooking by color” (“well, if spaghetti sauce is red, surely chili powder being red will also go..." That meal, cooked in her college days, cleared the family’s sinuses for a week.) But this trip she made us a salmon pie with a dill sauce and creamy mashed potatoes, clearing herself of all past cooking judgements. (i mean, it has been a decade.)

i also love the whole English tea and biscuits concept. It’s a lovely thing to take a break in the afternoon for a milky cup of tea and assorted dippable biscuits (cookies in the U.S.) Why do i love their biscuits more than the ones in the States? i don’t know. Maybe it’s just the fact that i’m on vacation in a foreign land and feel it’s okay to enjoy them. Maybe it’s because they have buttery, crispy cookies of every description—“digestives,” a basic vanilla type cookie, but topped in dark or milk chocolate, or caramel and chocolate, and the ever famous Hob Nobs, a more grainy, crunchy type of the same thing, or a thin crisp wafer with fruity bits in them, or delightfully dunkable raspberry and cream filled sandwich cookies…the possibilities are endless! The English son-in-law says these remind him of church social times and children’s snacks, but call me a child, i love ‘em!

What i’ve been pondering is my choice of “living to eat” rather than “eating to live,” that seems to symbolize my lack of self-discipline. The thing is, i do have impulse control—many many times i wanted to run my hand across the stubbly head of the passenger in front of me on the nearly four hour bus ride to Heathrow Airport in London, BUT I DIDN’T. And when standing in line at the grocery store behind a lady with the shoulder length gray hair that is probably what mine would look like if i let it go to its natural state, i wanted to ask to drape it over my head and take a picture so i could see what i might look like should i give up on the whole hair-dying annoyance. BUT I DIDN’T.

And now, i’m sitting in United First Class, home of the many-course meal—several starters, salad and bread, entrées that include filet mignon and halibut with lobster sauce, side dishes, and if there is a single bit of space left in your tummy, the possibility of an ice cream sundae with chocolate sauce or the cheese and fruit course. Now, i know for the people who have paid dearly for the privilege of excess this is expected. But for me? i just love to be waited on, i freely admit it! If we were paying full price for our tickets we would be in the back of the plane by the toilets, eating boxed lunches of questionable freshness.

i’m thinking that, since this is Thanksgiving week, and the eldest child (who also loves to cook) will have that family meal under control, if i can manage to squeak by without cooking until Thursday and then take home leftovers, i should be able to extend this non-cooking gig for another week.

The next month, i fear, rather than getting my exercise by trying to keep up the housekeeping for a household with two young boys and a baby, and having my meals provided pleasantly and with no work on my part—i will gladly do dishes by hand twelve times a day if i don’t have to cook!—i will need to live on my elliptical and eat a steady diet of steamed vegetables. There will be no drizzle of cream on my morning porridge, and no clotted cream for my non-existent scones.

*Sigh.*

Pardon me now, i have finished my Haagen Dazs ice cream, and am preparing to lay my First Class Suite flat so i can cuddle up under the quilted blanket provided and take a nap. Ah, the life of a jet-setter.